


Scoped and Dropped

by Laura Kaye (laurakaye)



Series: Calibrations [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Best Friends, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Pre-Relationship, Reunions, not dead after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, even stims wouldn’t be able to stop his hands shaking from lack of sleep. Eventually, his eyes would blur, he’d stop being able to follow the scrolling text on his visor. Eventually, they would have him.</p>
<p>Eventually, but not yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scoped and Dropped

**Author's Note:**

> I think there's an unwritten rule that everyone who writes FemShep/Garrus has to eventually write an Omega story. This is mine.
> 
> Thanks to Mordinette for speedy beta!

 

> 137 KILLS
> 
> . 
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> VORCHA  38.2 METERS
> 
> .
> 
>  

_-crack-_

 

 

 

> .
> 
> 138 KILLS
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> TURIAN  32.5 METERS
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> HUMAN 31.3 METERS
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
>  

_-crack-_

 

 

>  .
> 
> 139 KILLS
> 
> .

_-crack-_

 

 

> .
> 
> 140 KILLS
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> ASARI 42.1 METERS
> 
> BIOTIC BARRIER 58%
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 100%
> 
> .
> 
> _-crack-_
> 
> .
> 
> BIOTIC BARRIER 0%
> 
> BIOTIC BARRIER INACTIVE
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 87%
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> OVERLOADING. . . 
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 0%
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING INACTIVE
> 
> .

_-crack-_

 

 

> .
> 
> 141 KILLS
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> PLAYLIST RESTART
> 
> TRACK 1: DIE FOR THE CAUSE
> 
> .

 

“One less to worry about,” he muttered to himself, scanning the bridge again through his scope. It looked like this wave was over, at least. He huffed a sigh and rolled his neck, trying to ease the tension in his muscles from the long hours of holding the rifle. Modified or not, the Mantis had a hell of a kick. He was going to be sore for a week when this was all over.

Or dead. More likely dead. He was good, and his position superior, but there was a near-infinite supply of desperate people on Omega, and the mercs seemed to be finding them all and sending them over the bridge. Eventually, even stims wouldn’t be able to stop his hands shaking from lack of sleep. Eventually, his eyes would blur, he’d stop being able to follow the scrolling text on his visor. Eventually, they would have him.

Eventually, but not yet.

He pulled the half-empty crate of heat sinks closer, feeling around in the pile of discards near his feet for the box of ration bars he'd left there; it was nearly empty. He briefly considered trying to make them stretch, then thought better of it. Whether he ended up with a bullet through the head (likely) or somehow managed to escape this death trap, the situation would be resolved long before he'd have to worry about starvation. 

A flicker in his eyepiece caught his attention, the blue overlay flagging new thermal signatures at the far end of the bridge. Another wave, getting ready to come over the wall. 

Mandibles tight to his face, Archangel raised the rifle to his aching shoulder once more as the spotter readout scrolled. 

 

 

> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> HUMAN 39.7 METERS
> 
> .
> 
> .

_-crack-_

 

 

> .
> 
> 142 KILLS
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> HUMAN 36.2 METERS
> 
> .

_-crack-_

 

 

> .
> 
> 143 KILLS
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> HUMAN 35.0 METERS
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET LOST
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> HUMAN 38.9 METERS
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET LOST

 

He blinked in confusion as the two humans jerked and fell under obvious SMG fire. Were the freelancers shooting _themselves_ now? Maybe things were less dire than he’d thought. He lined up the next target for a headshot, but before he could squeeze the trigger the human staggered, caught in a biotic warp field that was targeted far too neatly to be accidental friendly fire. Something had changed.

He trained his scope behind the front line of the advancing wave, who seemed to have caught on to the danger and were now firing back the way they came, at a small group of people who, it was now obvious, were picking their fellows off as they advanced. Professionals, obviously; holding tight to cover, quick precise bursts of fire, smoothly coordinated with each other—this was no Omega scum. He wondered if one of the merc bands was trying to use the confusion to make a move on the other two, or if perhaps Aria T’Loak had decided to take a role. He squeezed off a concussive round to land just between the two groups, hoping to confuse matters, then concentrated on trying to catch a better look.

 

 

> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> HUMAN 42.0 METERS
> 
> BIOTIC BARRIER 91%
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 100%
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> SALARIAN 41.7 METERS
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 87%
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> PROFILE IDENTIFIED
> 
> —FRIENDLY—
> 
> SHEPARD 40.8 METERS
> 
> BIOTIC BARRIER 64%
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 100%
> 
> .

 

He cursed. The IFF algorithms in his visor were top of the line, but occasionally a very strong resemblance could fool them. He’d never had a false positive on Shepard before, though; he’d put far too many parameters into the profile. He waited for the human to pop back out of cover. He wanted to see her face. 

_(Human faces were so strange, mobile but somehow naked without mandibles, and their odd noses all in one segment. To make things worse, their body language and facial expressions were similar to asari, but not identical; just close enough to fool the unwary. He'd had classes on identifying human facial expressions in C-Sec, had a pack of flash cards, but he hadn't really been able to read humans with any consistency until the Normandy, working day after day in close quarters and firefights with Alenko and Williams and Shepard.)_  

She came out, wreathed in blue, flinging dark energy like a thunderbolt into one of the unfortunate mercs, then taking him out with a neat pistol round to the head as he hung, screaming, in the air. It was a distinctive move, done with flair; a move he remembered. He felt his gut twist with sick hope as he focused on her face.

Shepard.

_Shepard_ , red N7 stripe on display, unfamiliar scars on her cheek, fluid motion and biotic fury as she led the strangers beside her ever further across the bridge.

 

 

> .
> 
> SHEPARD 29.2 METERS
> 
> BIOTIC BARRIER 78%
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 100%
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> SHEPARD 23.8 METERS
> 
> BIOTIC BARRIER 75%
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 100%
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> SHEPARD 18.4 METERS
> 
> BIOTIC BARRIER 80%
> 
> KINETIC SHIELDING 100%
> 
> .

 

A shot sizzled off his shields, and he jerked, abruptly reminded that whatever else might be happening ( _Shepard,_ could it possibly… but after all, if anyone could…) he was in the middle of a firefight, and his odds of survival had just miraculously improved. 

He loaded another thermal clip into his rifle, his hands steadier than they’d been for half a day. Maybe-Shepard’s group seemed to have taken out just about everyone else, and was making a break for the first floor. He heard them, not trying to be quiet, picking up stray clips on the way in. He heard boots on the stairs, and made himself wait to turn around, making a last scan of the area through the scope. If Maybe-Shepard was here to kill him, well, maybe she deserved the shot.

“Archangel?” That voice. It _sounded_ right, but... 

A flash of movement. There. He knew there was another one. He waited until the man stuck his head out of cover, then dropped him. 

 

 

> .
> 
> 144 KILLS
> 
> .

 

He turned.

 

 

> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> Shepard 2.6 METERS
> 
> .
> 
> .

 

He lowered the gun, trying to roll out some of the ache in his arms. Things should be quiet for a little while, if the pattern held. He let himself sit; he couldn't really delay it anymore, but he was strangely reluctant to let her see him. As long as he didn't know for sure, he couldn't learn that Maybe-Shepard was actually Not-Shepard, or even something worse—some kind of clone or construct, or a product of plastic surgery- Almost-Shepard? Imitation-Shepard? It would be a desecration.

He pulled his helmet off.

Spirits, it looked even more like her through his unfiltered eyes. A deep breath: her smell was right, too, albeit more metallic than it had been. Implants? Reconstruction? Deep cover mission? He hadn’t been on the _Normandy_ , after all. He hadn’t seen it happen. He only knew what he’d been told.

_It’s true,_ he thought. _How is it true?_

“Shepard,” he said, and he couldn't quite control his subtones. He never thought to feel that name in his throat again, not like this. “I thought you were dead.”

Her eyes widened _(surprise),_ and she grinned widely, flat human teeth on display _(happiness not threat display)_ , cheek creasing around those strange new scars. She stepped forward, flinging her arms wide as though she would embrace him armor and all; an uncommonly open, _human_ posture, even for her. He felt something inside him ease.

_Shepard._ Somehow.

“Garrus!" she cried, and human throats were different, even with translators they couldn't produce the subtones that turians could, but he still could have sworn there were harmonics in her voice, welcome and joy overlying something deep and vast and cold. "What are you doing here?”

_Mourning. Failing. Dying._ “Just keeping my skills sharp. A little target practice.”

She narrowed her eyes at him _(suspicion)_. “You okay?”

_Not even remotely._ “Been better, but it sure is good to see a friendly face." _An impossible face. A dream._ "Killing mercs is hard work, especially on my own.”

“Well, we got here—" _here, beyond his most absurd and feverish wishes— "_ but I don’t think getting out will be as easy.”

He huffs a bit at the understatement. They begin to talk tactics, falling into old rhythms, despite the salarian's obvious curiosity and the strange human woman's attempts to insert herself into decisions. He wondered who they were to Shepard, but he couldn't let that thought go too long. _Keep it together, Vakarian._ The places it led were too deep to explore until they were safe.

Of course, safety was a relative term on Omega. He was almost glad for the sound of distant explosions that broke up their conversation; the longer he talked to Shepard _(almost entirely certainly somehow Shepard)_ , the more tenuous his hold on himself grew. It helped to be able to concentrate on tactics, letting himself sink into the comforting familiarity of tossing off wisecracks between shots. The salarian she left with him was useful, too, flushing targets out of cover through the simple expedient of setting them on fire. He seemed oddly familiar, though he couldn't remember Shepard ever working with a salarian in the old days.

He wasn't left to wonder long.

"Archangel really Garrus Vakarian," the salarian observed during a lull in the shooting. "fascinating development. Have seen much of your work in my clinic."

He blinked. "Wait, you're _Dr. Solus?_ I thought you came with Shepard."

"Came _here_ with Shepard, yes. To Omega, no. Have been here some time." He drew a deep breath. "Perhaps too long."

Garrus snorted. "An hour is too long to be on Omega."

"Many would agree." Dr. Solus popped out of cover just long enough to draw a bead on a merc, then sent a neural shock pulse from his omni-tool. The rumors in the slums about his colorful past were looking more and more likely to be true.

A stray shot pinged off the ledge in front of him, and he cursed, shaking his head. The stims were starting to wear off, he was starting to lose focus. "Keep it together, Vakarian," he muttered. 

_"Damn straight you better,"_ Shepard's voice was tinny in his ear. _"I didn't come all the way out to this shithole just to come away without a turian."_

"I hear one of Aria's bodyguards is looking to move up in the world," he said. Good thing most translators didn't even try to interpret subtones; his were were all over the place and he couldn't be damned to care.

_"Too bad for him the position has been filled,"_ Shepard said. Before he could reply the Blood Pack were charging the base and then everything was shots and smoke until he heard the whine of the gunship. He thought, for a moment, that he was home free, almost to cover with only minor damage from the guns, but then the rocket came, and Shepard's voice calling his name was the last sound that followed him into fiery darkness.

It took until the third or fourth time he woke up for him to actually stay conscious for any length of time, and the doctor had to brief him on the whole situation twice before he was more than half sure he wasn’t still under. To be fair, though, anyone would have had trouble with the situation. It's a hell of a thing; the _Normandy_ , but not. Joker and Chakwas and _Shepard_ , spirits, Shepard alive... but no Tali or Wrex or Liara or Kaidan. 

And Cerberus, twined through the whole thing like worms in a sack of meal.

To be perfectly honest, he was having some trouble wrapping his head around things, and it was only partially because of the sedatives. He needed to talk to Shepard.

He sat up slowly, bracing against the pain; he was sore all over, and there were several areas where he could feel something vast looming distantly under the numb buzz of medi-gel. Overall he was surprisingly not as bad as he’d expected, though, given the stims, the lack of sleep, the stress, and the direct hit from a rocket. He hadn’t really followed everything the doctor had said about cybernetic regeneration and bone weave lattices and nanosurgery, but if Cerberus has this level of care available at short notice in the med bay for a random turian, it might explain a bit more about how Shepard came to be not-dead.

“I don’t suppose you’ll listen if I try to convince you to stay here?” Dr. Chakwas said, and he flinched in surprise; he’d forgotten she was still in the room. Stupid, really. It was her room. 

Garrus really hated sedatives.

“Sorry, doctor,” he said, trying not to move his face much. “I really need to speak with the Commander. I don’t suppose that, um...” he plucked at the medical gown he was in, noting distantly that it was actually cut for a turian. 

The doctor sighed, but smiled at him. “It’s nice to see that some things never change, Garrus,” she said. “I’ll make you a deal. We had your armor cleaned and patched; I’ll give it to you if you’ll agree to let me help you put it on. You’re still a little groggy from the drugs; I won’t have you falling over." 

Garrus considered this. He had his pride, of course- the last thing on any turian to die, as the saying went- but once a person has rebuilt your face, that sort of thing didn’t seem as important. Plus, drugs or no, he had a feeling that falling over would really hurt. 

“Deal,” he said.

The less said about the armoring process, the better, although he noted somewhat distantly that the doctor was much stronger than she looked, and had excellent spatial awareness. His undersuit was pretty much a loss—the squish skin was going to have to be entirely replaced and about a third of the medi-gel conduits had ruptured—but at least it was more comfortable than putting armor over bare plates would be. The whole process took far too long for his comfort, too, but when it was over he felt much better. 

“Almost as good as new, save the rocket hole,” Dr. Chakwas said, looking him over with an uneven little smile ( _ambiguity, sarcasm._ ) “Come on, Garrus,  I’ll show you where to find the Commander.”

She took him up an elevator (mercifully faster than the old one had been, but not as fast as having stairs was) and through an empty armory (on the command deck, for some reason, terribly inconvenient for shuttle deployments) and back towards roughly the same place where the old comms room had been. He could hear two voices behind the door, and felt his shoulders ease a little when one of them was Shepard. He gave the doctor a grateful nod and drew himself up, thankful for the powered assist system on his armor that normally helped him move in high-g but today was enabling him to walk like a normal turian instead of like one who’d just been unconscious for three days after stopping a rocket with his face. With Cerberus all around, it wouldn’t do to show weakness.

The door slid open on the tail end of a man he didn’t recognize in a Cerberus uniform saying something about his poor prognosis. 

Garrus ignored him. “Shepard,” he said, and there went his subtones again; fortunately there was nobody around who’d be able to tell. She was staring past the Cerberus agent at Garrus, new scars more obvious in the room’s harsh light, looking at him with... well. With a look none of the flash cards had covered, anyway, but his best guess would combine _exhaustion_ with _relief_ and, if he might flatter himself, _happiness_.

“Nobody would give me a mirror,” he said, and meeting her eyes, he felt a wave of that certainty he’d always had around her, that solid knowledge that he was somewhere worthwhile.  He felt a very un-turian surge of fizzy euphoria that was possibly not entirely due to the medication. “How bad is it?”

“Hell, Garrus, you were always ugly,” she said, and that warm teasing tone was the best thing he’d heard since, well, the last best thing. Since she said his name. “Slap some face paint on there, and no one will even notice.”

He laughed in spite of himself, groaning as the flare of his reconstructed mandible sent a flash of fire over the side of his head.

“Don’t make me laugh, damn it, my face is barely holding together as it is,” he said, but even through the pain he couldn't bring himself to care that much, not with her there, grinning up at him, eyes sparkling and happy despite their faint cybernetic glow. They were both cyborgs, now, he supposed, and found the thought obscurely comforting.

“Some women find facial scars attractive,” he continued. “Mind you, most of those women are krogan.” He vaguely noticed the Cerberus agent leaving, but his attention was elsewhere. He moved closer to Shepard, lowering his voice. “Frankly, I’m more worried about you. _Cerberus,_ Shepard? You remember all those sick experiments they were doing?”

Her eyes flashed sideways toward the table, her face forcing itself smooth. It was a look he knew, a look that said _watch for trouble and follow my lead_ , a look he’d seen hundreds of times. “That’s why I’m glad you’re here, Garrus,” she said. “If I’m walking into hell, I want someone I trust at my side.”

That, at least, was something he understood completely. “You realize this plan has me walking into hell too,” he noted, glancing to the table (bugged, maybe?) and then back to her; _you know I will. Always_. “Heh, just like old times. I’m fit for duty whenever you need me, Shepard. I’ll settle in and see what I can do at the forward batteries.” 

What he could do would definitely include a comprehensive tech sweep, starting with the omni-tool that had been out of his control while he was unconscious. Perhaps he could convince Shepard to take them somewhere where he could hunt out some non-Cerberus gear, just to be sure, and then maybe they could have a real conversation. In the meantime, his duty was to finish healing, do some low-key reconnaissance, and prepare himself for whatever she needed him for.

He flicked his visor on for one last look before he left.

 

> .
> 
> HIGH-RES BIOANALYSIS ACTIVE
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> SHEPARD 1.2 METERS
> 
> HR 43 RESP 12 
> 
> BIOTIC FIELD DORMANT
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> TARGET ACQUIRED
> 
> SHEPARD 1.9 METERS
> 
> HR 41 RESP 13 
> 
> BIOTIC FIELD DORMANT
> 
> .
> 
> .

 

The display scrolled in a quiet, comforting flicker as he let the door slide shut behind him, leaving her in the comms room, alive, alive, _alive_.

 


End file.
